Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask

by Frederick Nebel

  After a few minutes he gave up the hall door and soft-shoed down the stoop to the sidewalk. There was a shallow areaway belonging to the house, three steps below the sidewalk. Unlike the main floor door—which was equipped with a snap lock—the door in the areaway had only a keyhole beneath the knob. Donahue got in, locked the door from the inside.

  He was in a hallway. Groping through the dark, he came to a boxed-in narrow stairway and climbed to the main floor, where a dim light glowed in the hallway. He listened for a moment, heard no sound; and then he began climbing the carpeted stairway towards the second floor. A radio was playing, softly. He tracked down the sound to the front of the hallway, heard the low mutter of voices behind a door on the left.

  Standing motionless for a long moment, listening, cogitating, he finally drew his gun from its shoulder-holster. It was a .38 revolver, and he cocked it. Then he cat-footed halfway up the next stairway, turned, and made considerable noise coming down. He went directly to the door and knocked insistently.

  A voice asked: “What’s the matter? Who’s it?”

  Donahue assumed a high, petulant, rasping voice: “You going to play that damned radio all night? How do you expect a person to sleep?”

  “Okey, okey.”

  “If you don’t cut it out I’ll find a way to make you! Who do you think you are, anyhow? You think maybe you own this house? Other tenants want to sleep! I want to sleep!”

  “I said okey, didn’t I?”

  “I’m just getting tired of it! You play it again and I’ll bust your door down and bust the radio, too!”

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “You heard me!”

  There was an oath, a furious rattling of the key in the lock. The door whipped open.

  Donahue went in like a gale wind. Briefly he saw the little man before him. The little man went down like a struck weed. The tall man was sitting in a big armchair with a girl on his lap. That handicapped him. He dropped a glass of whiskey and the girl, frightened, threw her arms around his neck. The little man began scuttling across the floor like a whipped cur, but at the same time he clawed frantically at a shoulder-holster. Another girl stopped squirting seltzer into a glass, opened her mouth wide but didn’t say anything; her mouth remained open.

  “You on the floor!” Donahue snapped.

  The little man flattened, his right arm buried beneath his body. He remained that way, motionless, his breath whistling. The girl who had been squirting the seltzer began backing up, wooden-legged.

  Donahue said: “You on the floor, slide that rod out from beneath you and be careful when you do it.”

  The tall man rose, lifting the girl with him. He set her down in the chair. He was in shirt-sleeves. His coat hung on the back of a chair several feet away; on the chair, also, hung his gun and holster. He put his hands on his hips. The diamonds on his fingers sparkled. The room was large, luxurious; a door, open, led to other rooms beyond.

  “Is my face red?” he drawled.

  Donahue said: “It looks pretty white to me.” He barked at the man on the floor: “What did I tell you about that gun!”

  The little man’s hand shot out, still holding the gun.

  “Take your hand off it,” Donahue said, “and crawl.”

  The little man was reluctant. Donahue took a step, put his foot down on the man’s hand. There was a yelp. The little man crawled away. Donahue picked up the gun, hefted it, shoved it into his overcoat pocket.

  “Get up now.”

  The little man rose, crouching. His upper lip twitched madly, his lower hung motionless, and the rest of his face was cold, stony, gray.

  Donahue said to both men: “This is a pinch, sweethearts…. Half-pint, get over alongside your pal. Get over, I said!”

  When the little man had joined his companion, Donahue moved to a small table, reached for a French telephone.

  The girl who had been sitting on the tall man’s lap cried: “What are you doing?”

  “Cops.”

  “No! No! Listen, I can’t be caught here! Listen, I got a husband! He’ll beat hell out of me!” She jumped up, wild-eyed. “Listen, for——sake! Irene and I are supposed to be in New Jersey!”

  Donahue said: “So I hope he beats hell out of you.”

  “Oh, please Oh, listen! N-no!” She stumbled across the room towards him, shaking her head. “You don’t know Bill! He’ll murder me! Irene and I are supposed to be in Bill’s cabin near Woodport! Bill couldn’t come account of work! He’ll—”

  “Get back!”

  “Oh, won’t you listen! My——! The cops! I can’t—”

  “Get back! Don’t get in my way!”

  Panicky, breathless, she swayed before him, wringing her hands.

  He saw the little man move—lightning-fast—towards the chair on which the other’s holster hung. He saw the woman reeling in front of him—her contorted face, her frizzy hair. He struck with his left hand and she reeled, took a floor lamp down with her, screamed. He saw the slight twitch of the holster as the little man freed the gun. Saw the gun swing.

  Donahue fired twice. The two explosions interlocked, welded; there was only a split-instant’s interval between them. There was no third report. The little man shook, sank—and Donahue saw that his eyes were closed tightly, that his upper lip convulsed, baring his teeth in a macabre grimace that almost looked like a grin.

  The tall man’s face was white as death.

  Donahue said to the tall man, grimly: “Ambitious, wasn’t he?”

  Then he raised the telephone.

  Chapter IX

  Token Moore sat in Kelly McPard’s chair. She looked very lovely and grave and injured, with her downcast eyes, her fingers worrying a crumpled little handkerchief.

  Donahue, taking drafts from a bucket of hot coffee, regarded her critically. Kelly McPard, though he hadn’t slept for many hours, looked spic and span, alert, wide-awake. There was a sound in the hall, and then the door opened and Spengler, grinning, shoved the tall man into the office.

  Spengler said: “He’s Joe Ackerman. The little guy’s Midge Reider. Close friends of King Padden, the St. Louis number one man.”

  Kelly McPard looked at Token Moore. “This the guy?”

  She raised her eyes, then lowered them. “Yes.”

  McPard sighed. “Okey, Dutch; take him out.”

  Spengler shoved Ackerman into the hall, closed the door.

  Token had remained stoical too long. She burst out: “I’ll go crazy, I’ll go crazy!”

  “You should have reported this,” McPard said. “It would have saved a lot of grief.”

  She cried: “I couldn’t! I was there when Danny came and I hid. I hid behind the sofa. And then Danny went out and about five minutes later there was a knock and I thought it was Danny again, so I hid behind the sofa again. I heard them come in. I heard one of them say: ‘Consadine, you and Harrigan double-crossed the chief. King sent us here with three hundred grand to bet on Tripp because you told him you and Harrigan were chucking the fight. You double-crossed us, you rat. We’re getting you and we’re getting Harrigan.’ And then—it happened. And I got a look at them. And then they went out and I saw Giles—dead—bloody—and I ran out and went home to my hotel.”

  “When you knew we had Harrigan here for the murder, why didn’t you tell us the truth?”

  She gasped: “I—I—” And then she broke into sobbing, covering her face.

  Donahue set down the bucket of coffee. “I’ll tell you, Kel,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Token. “She and Consadine had been two-timing on the kid. When Consadine was knocked off, she skimmed out because she couldn’t take it. When she learned from me, later, that you guys had Harrigan, she knew then that he was out of danger of the two men that had killed Consadine. So she told me she loved Danny. She must have had an idea that somehow or other Danny would be freed. With Consadine dead, she thought of Danny again—and his dough. If she’d come out in the open to explain who’d killed Consadine, Harrigan would have k
nown she was in Consadine’s place. So she kept silent. She probably had a vision of herself standing heroically by Danny during the trial—getting her mug in the papers, getting nice sobby write-ups, and getting—if he was freed—her hooks into his dough. She—”

  Token screamed: “Stop! Oh, how I hate you—hate you! I—I—” She choked, then broke out in a flood of new tears, stamping her feet.

  Donahue picked up the bucket of coffee again. He said, with a dry smile: “Dumb as the kid is, he fooled you and he fooled Consadine. Mainly, though, he fooled you. He’ll have a hard time of it for a while, but he’ll grow older, forget; and after a while you’ll be just another day wasted away.”

  She buried her face in her hands. She was overwhelmed by chagrin, humiliation, self-pity.

  “Save ’em,” Donahue said. “Save your tears, Token.”

  Song and Dance

  Tough dick Donahue plays nurse to a champ who has more dollars than sense

  Chapter I

  The wind was raw, cold. It beat the skirt of Donahue’s long camel’s hair like a pennant, rapped the brim of his fedora against the crown. He walked into it, against it, bent over. Ahead, farther up the dark street, he saw the winking sign of the Suwanee Club. He stretched his legs, ducked down beneath the white marble façade, opened the heavy wooden door; and instantly the sound of the wind was gone, the warmth of the foyer enveloped him and he stood for a moment blowing his nose, wiping his eyes. Beyond the heavily draped doors, a band was playing.

  A theatrical blonde in a trim little uniform took his hat and coat. He stood in the center of the sumptuous foyer, a lean brown man, neatly dressed in dark clothes. He lit a cigarette, puffed, and the first balloon of smoke hung languorously above his head. There was a frown on his forehead, a lowering look in his eyes, and a tautness of lip that indicated he had not come here for pleasure.

  As he started forward, one of the black drapes parted magically and Arnholt, the manager, stopped and squinted towards Donahue. A light flashed in Arnholt’s eyes, and was instantly extinguished, but it left on his face a sudden pallor. A silly, jerky grin jumped to his pulpy lips, and in an instant he was flounderingly ingratiating.

  “Well, well, Donny—” He clapped pulpy white hands together, came forward.

  Donahue said dryly: “The old Suwanee still going strong—in memory of Giles Consadine.” He laughed softly, went past Arnholt, drew aside one of the black drapes. He walked down a short, broad corridor. He looked over his shoulder and saw Arnholt standing with the drape drawn, with his lower lip hanging open. Donahue went on, bending his brows in a frown. He pushed open a wooden swing door, and the sound of a band rushed at him. He stepped into the crowded bar-room, crossed to the bar and slid a foot onto the brass rail.

  “Old-fashioned, Rudolph.”

  “Ain’t seen you in a couple weeks, Mr. Donahue.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Waiting for the drink, Donahue turned, leaned his back against the bar, hooked a heel on the rail. Through the archway he could see the broad expanse of the dining and dancing-room, the swaying couples, the flashing brasses of the band. The bar itself was noisy—noisy with drunks and with men trying to make themselves heard above the bedlam of the band.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arnholt come in. He did not turn, but he could see Arnholt coming hesitatingly towards him. He turned in the opposite direction at the sound of his drink landing on the bar; he raised it, sipped, and found Rudolph eying him sharply. But Rudolph dropped his gaze, whistled, moved away. And then Arnholt was at Donahue’s elbow.

  “Just—ah—killing a little time, Donny?”

  “Just,” said Donahue.

  “I—I’m trying to keep the place going since Consadine was killed. I guess I’ll make a go of it.” His voice sounded strained, and there was a nervous, unnatural little laugh in it.

  Donahue looked at himself in the mirror, shifted his gaze and saw, farther down the bar, Rudolph tapping fingers and eying him intently. Donahue turned around and saw that Arnholt had gone, but he caught sight of the manager heading for the dining-room, saw him stop and talk with a head-waiter. Donahue finished his drink, moved away from the bar, reached the archway and stood there, back on his heels, his eyes narrowed down, searching the crowd.

  A minute passed before he saw, through the shifting, shuffling dancers, the girl moving alone. He saw Token Moore moving swiftly, with a wrap over her arm, and the headwaiter at her heels, pointing towards one of several doors. A tight, malicious grin spread over Donahue’s face, and he nodded to himself. He pivoted back into the bar, went down the bar to the swing door, pushed it open and entered the corridor. He strode swiftly down the corridor, flung aside the drape and saw the last of Token Moore going out the front door. The headwaiter had opened the door, and now he was swinging it shut.

  “Open that,” Donahue said.

  The headwaiter turned and raised his hands, said: “Listen, now—”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “Listen—” He fumbled around in front of the door, killing time.

  Arnholt was standing with one of the drapes held back, his mouth open, his eyes wide.

  Donahue grabbed the headwaiter, lifted him, threw him. The man let out a frightened squeal, and then Donahue had the door open. He ran to the sidewalk, across it, and caught a cab door as it was swinging shut. He opened it wide and looked in at Token Moore.

  His voice was low, sarcastic: “You’re why I came here, sweetheart.” He climbed in, closed the door. “Okey, driver—shoot.”

  “Where?”

  Donahue looked down at Token Moore. “The Hotel Eden, I guess.”

  She had not moved, had not spoken. She sat pressed in one corner of the seat, her face drained of color, her eyes wide and rolling with a kind of subdued horror. She was small, beautiful; and as the cab drove off, she rocked with the motion of it and kept staring wide-eyed at Donahue.

  “Scared, huh?” he muttered, boring her with a dark stare.

  “What—what do you want?”

  He laughed ironically, remained silent for a moment, worrying her with his dark stare. “You know what I want, baby. Not so long ago you were Harrigan’s mama—the champion’s love life. And at the same time you were playing around with Giles Consadine, the champion’s manager. And Giles Consadine was killed, and the champ found out you’d been playing around with him—and you lost your meal ticket.”

  She moved uncomfortably, looked away from him.

  He leaned closer to her, his voice low and caustic: “It’s just come to me that you’re going to sue him for breach of promise. Four hundred grand, which means you hope to get three hundred. Listen, sister, use your head. Lay off. I’ll crucify you if you try to go through with it.”

  She turned and stared hotly at him. Her lips moved, then tightened. She said nothing.

  He went on, tapping her knee: “Donahue sees all, hears all. Consadine was killed by a couple of wild St. Louis hoods because a big shot out there figured that Consadine double-crossed him. Consadine had told this St. Louis big shot that Harrigan, the champ, was to chuck the fight to Tripp. Harrigan was—but at the last minute he changed his mind. He changed his mind because he was afraid Consadine was taking you away from him—and he was afraid that if he wasn’t champion any more you’d chuck him. So he knocked Tripp out. And that knockout cost the St. Louis big shot exactly three hundred grand and—”

  “Stop this cab!” she breathed, like one stifled.

  “You little tramp, listen to me!” he dug in. “I’m still hired by the Boxing Commission to see Harrigan gets in the clear. Listen, you—sit down! And get this, sister,” he went on in a low, bitter tone. “I saw you riding down Fifth Avenue yesterday in a big limousine. I know you haven’t the dough to ride in one like that. You were alone, but I checked up on the license plates. I found—”

  “Driver!” she yelled. “Driver, stop this cab!”

  Donahue barked: “Keep going!”

 
“Driver, stop—stop!”

  The driver braked, pulled over to the curb, stopped.

  Donahue snapped: “By——! I told you to keep going!”

  Token Moore was trying to open the door, and she cried: “Don’t! This man is trying to attack me!”

  The driver was a large, beefy man. He swung down from his seat, opened the right-hand door, and Token Moore fell out. Donahue leaped after her, and the driver grabbed the lapel of his coat, swung him around.

  “Listen, buddy, maybe this ain’t no business o’ mine, but I got a daughter o’ my own—”

  “You lug, stay out of this!”

  Donahue heaved him off, bent and caught hold of Token Moore as she staggered to her feet. It was a dark street far on the upper East Side, tenantless at this hour. Token kicked and scratched. The taxi driver set his jaw and got under way with both fists cocked.

  Donahue rasped: “You big sap, lay off! This dame—” He heaved back, dragging Token with him.

  “Leggo her!” the driver roared.

  With one hand Donahue swung Token behind him; with the other, knotted, he slammed the driver between the eyes. The man sat down on the sidewalk, cursed, and got up and came at Donahue with a low bellow. Donahue let go of Token and she fell to the street. He weaved beneath the driver’s blows, came up under them and gripped the man.

  “Listen, guy—you’re wasting time! I tell you this dame—”

  Donahue stopped talking and looked up the street. A car was speeding towards them, only low cowl lights glowing. Token was getting to her feet.

  Donahue’s voice rushed down at the man: “Let go!” He wrenched and tussled violently, but the man hung on grimly.

  Suddenly a spotlight sprang to life, flooded them. Token Moore raised her hands to shield her eyes. Donahue dragged the man with him towards the taxi. The car swooped nearer. Donahue caught a glimpse of a hand thrust through one of the sedan’s windows. He yelled into the driver’s ear and tried to pitch with him behind the taxi. A gun exploded three times from the window of the speeding sedan.